Cash was impressed by Elliot’s paintings, too. “All the years Elliot was CEO of his electronics company, he was organized and results-oriented. Hal said that he had a mathematical mind, a true engineer. These paintings show a side of Elliot that none of us knew existed. When I look at these scenes, I don’t see a man who lived a regimented life. I’ve known Elliot since I was a kid, and I never would have guessed that an artist was hiding in the shadows of his psyche. In spite of all the turmoil his leaving Arizona caused, perhaps in the end it was the best thing that could have happened.”
“How can you say that?”
“It freed Elliot, loosened him up for a whole new stage of life. One that he needs now that his beloved Emily is gone. You see, she was his alter ego, his bright, free spirit. As much as he loves Margo and Hal, a part of him was missing after Emily died. Perhaps in discovering art, he filled a bit of that empty space.”
Christie touched his arm. “Your insight surprises me. You’re right, Elliot’s paintings reflect his soul. That’s what I’ll feel every time I look at this one.” She pointed to a misty, moody rendition of Big Sur’s cliffs and surf. A silvery splash of sunlight glittered off the waves as they brushed the sand. A circle of gulls, wings spread wide, soared on an updraft. Elliot’s palette knife had created deep-gray, three-dimensional rocky spires.
“So, you’ve chosen your painting.”
“Yes. This is the one that speaks to me.”
The gallery owner wrapped the painting, and Cash carefully stashed it in the rear of the SUV.
On the drive back he suggested a side trip to Pacific Grove for lunch.
They picked a casual eatery and sat at a window table that overlooked the surf.
“That beach”—Cash nodded his head toward a small cove—“is called Lovers Point.”
“Lovers Point? Sounds like a story’s lurking.”
“Rumor has it that a rejected lover, overcome with grief, walked into the surf and swam out toward the horizon. They never recovered his body.”
“Like James Mason in A Star Is Born?”
“Something like that. I doubt that many couples who stroll along Lovers Point today ever heard of James Mason, however. If they’ve heard of the movie at all, they would probably connect it with Streisand and Kristofferson.”
A server interrupted the discussion by placing their orders on the table.
“Crab salad looks great.” Christie reached for a roll, broke off a piece, and buttered it. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
She turned her attention back toward the beach. She surmised that this stretch could be treacherous, but right now it was benign and picturesque. The sea drew her. She could not imagine living far from the water’s edge. Her soul would ache for salt air and sea breezes.
“I can almost see Elliot here, with his easel plunked down on the sand.”
“For someone who lived in Arizona all of his life, he seems to have adapted well to the coast.”
“It is more than adapting—he’s fallen in love with the sea. He’ll want to come back. Oh, not to live here permanently, but he will come back.” She leaned forward. “I can’t imagine being landlocked.”
Cash reached across the table and his big hand enfolded her smaller one. “I’m glad we share the same attachment to the sea. It’s one more thing we have in common.”
Christie smiled; words were unnecessary to convey her reaction to his remark. Did their love for the sea bind them to each other? She lowered her eyes, confused by her interpretation of his statement. Wishful thinking, she chided herself, nothing more than wishful thinking.
After lunch they continued the drive to the airport. Cash parked adjacent to Christie’s car, and the two of them climbed out of the SUV. Christie leaned against her car door, and Cash positioned an arm on each side of her, fencing her in. He bent toward her and his face was so close she could feel his breath curling across her cheeks.
“Shall we meet at your place?” he asked. His voice was low and throaty.
“I’d like that,” she said.
He kissed her lightly, and she took the gesture as a tease for something more to come. She would dwell on the thought all the way home.
Before she pulled out of the parking lot, she slipped a CD into the stereo. She needed the peppy songs of the Dixie Chicks to keep her alert on the long drive. Traffic along Highway 1 was light until she reached Santa Cruz. Then she merged with the commuters anxious to get home. It was worse when she reached the city. Drivers’ patience was strained, car horns blared, and drivers sped through yellow traffic lights to beat the red. Twice she was cut off. At a red light, she took a moment to insert a mellow Harry Connick, Jr. CD to ease her jangled nerves. At times like this, she almost understood road rage. Didn’t approve, would never approve, but almost understood.
She was tempted to swing by the office to see if there were any messages, but since Cash was going to meet her at her place, she would go straight on. She assumed he would make a quick detour to his office first, but she decided her business could wait until morning.
Driving down her street, she could not believe her luck: a parking spot. After maneuvering into the space, she hurried to her apartment. Once inside she stood in the hallway and called Tosha. The cat usually greeted her at the door; the key turning in the lock was her signal. She called again, but Tosha did not respond.
She quickly walked through the rooms looking for the cat. She found her in the bedroom lying between the pillows. “Tosha,” she called, surprised that the cat did not rise. “Tosha, baby,” she called again. The cat lifted its head and softly meowed. It was more a cry of distress than a hello. Christie picked the cat up and held her close. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Whatever is wrong?”
Tosha lay listless in her arms. Christie carried her into the kitchen to give her a treat. That would surely liven her up, she thought. She took a can of chicken and liver off a shelf and pulled the tab. She let Tosha smell the food, but the cat did not move a whisker. Something was terribly wrong. Christie looked at the dish of dry food and bowl of water. It appeared that neither had been touched all day.
Still holding the cat, she punched the number eight and the telephone automatically began dialing the vet. Rachael, the technician, answered, and after Christie told her Tosha’s symptoms, Rachael suggested she bring the cat right in.
“We’ll be here until six. If you hurry, we’ll have time to run some tests.”
Christie hung up the phone. She put Tosha on the couch and went to get the cat carrier. Then she remembered that Cash was coming over. She dialed his cell phone and he answered on the second ring. She briefly told him the situation.
When she arrived at the vet’s office, Cash was standing in the waiting room. He took the carrier and embraced her. Tears began to stream down her face. The anxiety she had fought to keep at bay, the fear that Tosha’s illness was serious, overwhelmed her. She couldn’t stand it if anything happened to her beloved cat.
“I don’t know how…but I’m glad you came.”
“I got the address from the phone book. You don’t think I’d let you go through this alone?”
“Thanks,” was all she could muster.
Rachael told Christie that Dr. Jacobs would see Tosha right away.
Inside the examining room, Christie lifted Tosha out of the carrier and held her until the vet entered the room.
“What seems to be the problem?” Dr. Jacobs asked.